


The Road to Borogravia

by MadHatter13



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Podfic Welcome, Road Trips, and also during war, don't worry i promise it's at least a little bit funny, of the semi-modernized fantasy variety, takes place during Monstrous Regiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-30 01:43:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16755472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadHatter13/pseuds/MadHatter13
Summary: "Two thousand-three hundred miles. And it's freezing on a broomstick, however low they fly. And then the barge, and then the coach..."Travelling to another country with three of your co-workers, especially in wartime, can present some unique challenges including, but not limited to: Banditry, broomsticks, and bureaucrats.





	The Road to Borogravia

**Author's Note:**

> Monstrous Regiment presented me with the prospect of these four on an honest-to-god road trip! How could I possibly resist?

The coach ride to Borogravia was shaping up to be, of all things, boring. The road didn‘t care that the fate of nations hung in the balance, or something. It just continued to be long, uninteresting, and hard on the backside.

                Things had become somewhat more bearable once Buggy had pulled out a deck of cards. Cheating was much harder than normal due to the fact that the cards were gnome-size, which thwarted Sergeant Angua‘s attempts to peak at Reg‘s cards over his shoulder. The Commander, meanwhile, was blessed with a natural poker face formidable even to his subordinates, and it only took twenty-six minutes for Buggy to spot Reg bottom-dealing out of the deck.*

_*Which was a remarkable feat, given the state of his fingers which were stuck on only because Nobby had introduced him to staple guns._

                Despite the cold, both windows were open, and no-one commented on it. It was possible to get used to the chemical cocktail odours of a zombie over time, but being cooped up with one in a smallish box was bad enough without adding motion-sickness or a werewolf‘s sense of smell to the mix.

                ‘Go fish,’ said Buggy.

                ‘Swires, for the last time,’ said Angua. ‘We have been playing Cripple Mister Onion for the last eight rounds.’

                ‘You know what I mean,’ said the gnome, waving a fistful of cards dismissively.

                ‘I really don’t.’

                Reg sighed* and patiently dealt Buggy more cards. Silence descended, but not for long.

_*Well, it was more of an undeath rattle._

                ‘How long has it been?’ Asked Mister Vimes.

                ‘Only five hours, sir,’ said Angua, laying down two cards.

                ‘”Only”?’ Vimes muttered.

                ‘Sir, you _do_ remember how long this trip is going to take us.’

                ‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.’ He laid down a four-card Onion and there was a heartfelt groan from Reg, who bowed out. Angua laid down a full Pickle Salad in response, causing her boss to grunt and bow out as well. ‘The travel time was bad enough, we have no idea how long we’re going to be stuck there.’

                ‘From the reports, not long at all,’ said Angua, who now had locked eyes with Buggy, who was very slowly and very deliberately drawing his final card without breaking eye contact. He cut the stare for a split second to glance at the new card, then grinned horribly, and laid down a full thirteen-card Onion. There was a chorus of outrage and disgust.

                ‘Oh, come on!’

                ‘He doesn’t even know what we’re playing!’

                ‘I swear to the gods, Constable, I could fire you for this.’

                Buggy cackled, and began to laboriously haul the pile of small change into the rucksack he carried, an armful of coins at a time. The torrent of swearing was broken only when the driver knocked on the panel between his seat and the carriage. Reg slid it aside. ‘Yes?’

                ‘We’re stopping here for the night, guv,’ he said. ‘The Express Coach to Mouldavia won’t be here until four AM, so I’d advise ye to get your head down in the meantime.’

                The panel slid shut again and Buggy snorted. ‘Fat chance of that. I doubt the coaching inn has normal-sized beds.’

                ‘Or dog baskets,’ said Angua, shooting a chagrined look at the sky outside the window.

                The both glanced at Reg, who shrugged. ‘What, you expect me to complain? It’s not like I sleep.’

                Mister Vimes yawned. ‘Wake me up in time for breakfast, would you?’

* * *

 

They left the inn at arse-o’clock in the morning, but before they got on the coach a runner from the nearest clacks tower handed the Commander a message. Vimes ran his eyes over the words – code, actually – and made a disgusted noise.

                ‘Bad news, Mister Vimes?’ Asked Reg.

                ‘Not according to Rust,’ he growled, and climbed into the coach. He waited until they were on the road to take out the message again, which he had hurriedly stuffed inside his breastplate. He waved the crumpled slip of paper in the air. ‘Apparently the _Alliance_ has taken the Borogravian High Command hostage and is now on the _receiving_ end of the siege.’

                ‘Well?’ Said Buggy. ‘Means they might be able to punt some sense into the buggers, if they have them by the short and curlies.’

                ‘You think so? Borogravia has spent the last two hundred years fighting _everyone_ , up to and including themselves. This kind of stunt will just make them do something stupid and reckless and _heroic_.’

                ‘Take heart, sir,’ said Angua. ‘Surely some of them have the decency to be cowards.’

                Vimes snorted, but if you had known him for long enough, you could tell it was the long-lost second cousin of a laugh. ‘We can but hope. Anyone know where we stashed those playing cards?’

* * *

 

                ‘Bingley, bingley, beep!’

                There was a growl from somewhere within a pile of blankets of pillows in the bottom bunk of the bunk bed. A hand reached out and grabbed the offending Disorganizer, and hurled it against the wall, where it fell silent.

                In the top bunk, Angua rose up with a verticality and lack of vital signs normally attributed to an entirely different class of undead. She scratched at the side of her face, where the pillow had left an imprint on her chin, and cringed when she felt the manky state of her own tongue. ‘Mister Vimes, it’s time to get up,’ she said distantly, attempting to pat her hair down from “thundercloud” to at least “cumulus”. The pile of blankets and duvets did not move or make a sound. She pulled on her trousers* then jumped down, landing with nary a sound on the freezing cold wood floor. Glancing at the pile, she reached into her bunk for a pillow. Then, after a second’s pause, not for hesitation, but aim, she threw it as hard as she could.**

_* A feat of advanced gymnastics in a bunk bed._

_** Which was very hard._

There was a moment’s silence. Then, Vimes emerged like a disbelieving tortoise, outrage writ large on his face.  ‘Sergeant. Did you just _throw_ a _pillow_ at me?’

                ‘Impossible, sir.’ Said Angua. ‘I would never attack a commanding officer.’

                There was an indignant huff, and Vimes rose from the pile of blankets like a minor landslide. He scratched at his chin, now edging from stubble into True Beard territory.* ‘What time is it?’

_*Although no-one had yet seen the Commander with an actual beard. Bets were in place at the Watch House debating if he’d ever grow one, be it by accident or design._

                ‘I would tell you, only you’ve destroyed your watch again. Sir.’

                ‘Nah, it’s some indestructible model Sybil picked up after the last one.’ He yawned. ‘Coach again?’

                ‘Broomstick.’    

                ‘Gods _damn_ it...’

                ‘Yes, sir.’

                ‘Where are the others?’

                ‘Reg said he saw an interesting cemetery nearby and went to check it out. Buggy got into a drinking contest with a bunch of humans last night who had never seen a gnome before.’

                ‘Ye gods. Are they alright?’

                ‘Probably will be in a few days.’ At least no-one needed their stomach pumped. Again.

                ‘And Buggy?’

                ‘Fresh as a daisy. He was already up when I got up around four, preparing the raptor for long distance flight.’

                He hummed. ‘Right. Let me get dressed, then we’ll see if we can’t argue the wizard into hiking up the speed on those things. The way things are going over there, I don’t want this to take a moment longer than it has to.’

                ‘Sir.’ Angua left the room, but almost tripped over a maid who, it was absurdly obvious, had been listening at the door. ‘Which way to breakfast?’ She asked, watching the woman’s ears turn an interesting crimson.

                ‘Er – just up the hallway on the right, miss!’ Relief steamed off her as she thought she’d gone undiscovered. ‘The blue door, miss!’

                ‘Thank you. Next time you might want to hold a mug or something against the door. So you can hear better.’

                The woman’s hand flew to her mouth in mortification. ‘Miss, I didn’t -!’

                ‘That’s Sergeant, thank you.’ She turned and walked towards the dining room. Buggy was there, already making headway into putting away a breakfast bigger than he was.

                ‘Morag doing okay?’ Angua asked, and took a seat.

                ‘Fit as a fiddle, boss. Got some raw pheasant in the kitchen to feed her and she’s itching to take flight. Reg is with her right now.’

                Angua grimaced, and reached for some fruit. ‘Is he wearing gloves, at least? Last time she nearly had a finger off!’

                ‘He’ll learn. Where’s Mister Vimes?’

                ‘Present.’ Came a scratchy voice, and the man himself sat down across from Angua. He reached for a plate, and stacked it with bacon, sausage, eggs and black pudding with the grim determination of a man who can see blocked arteries on the horizon and refuses to flinch.

                ‘You look like shit, boss.’

                ‘Thanks, Buggy.’ He swallowed a forkful of bacon with every sign of enjoyment and said, ‘Is there any specific reason the maid ran away when she saw me just now?’

                ‘Well, like I just said –‘

                ‘ _Thank_ you, Buggy. Well?’ He looked at Angua, who was pouring herself some coffee.

_*Brewed to wizard-specifications, and therefore just as strong as Watch House coffee but, it has to be said, much better tasting._

                ‘Professor Mumblebottom should hire people who don’t try to spy on his guests,’ she said. ‘Although I can hardly blame her. Working all the way up here must be boring as hell.’

                “Up here” was somewhere on the borders of Skund and Zlobenia, although no two international diplomats could agree where one ended and the other began. Specifically, the estate of Dr. Eckleberg C. Mumblebottom, Phd. Thau., which resembled nothing more so than a log cabin built on too large a scale. This accounted for the sleeping arrangements, since there was an overabundance of rooms dedicated to laboratories, libraries, assorted mini-bars and at least one sauna, but only one (if rather large) guest room. It was far from the first time the entire squad had had to bunk together, but the arrangement seemed to bother absolutely everyone _but_ the people who had to put up with it. Most of the impromptu sleepover-buddies tended to conk out as soon as they laid down, sometimes even before, and thus they had few very complainants about the arrangements.*

_*Aside from Reg, who normally used the chance to catch up on his needlework._

                The people who _were_ inclined to complain about this state of affairs were mostly those who already found it outrageous enough that Angua was in the Watch at all, never mind the “officer” bit. The fact that she occasionally shared a room with three men for the duration of the trip was just a final scandal to perch on top of the seven-tiered cake of disgrace.* Probably the maid had just been hungry for gossip of some sort, she decided. Well, good luck on finding some.

_*Never mind that all of them were either happily married, dead or ten inches tall._

                Vimes merely grunted, but still looked just about as terrible as when he woke up. Bowing to sympathy, Angua nudged the coffee pot towards him.

                She was on her third apple* when the owner of the place walked in. He was a rather crunchier type than his city brethren, but he was no Mustrum Ridcully. Under different circumstances he’d never be up before noon. His voluminous robes stretched across two decades’ worth of second and third breakfasts, and his pipe looked like it had been in continuous use longer even than that.

_*It was too much to hope to get a decent vegetarian meal in a wizard’s house._

                ‘We are just about ready to send you off!’ He said. ‘I have procured for you a guide to get you as far as the Zlobenian highlands, where you should meet a representative of the Low King.’

                ‘How fast did you say those things went?’ Said Mister Vimes, pouring his second cup of coffee.

                ‘Oh, it should only take you a few days to –‘

                ‘Unfortunately, Doctor, we do not have a few days. Now, I know dwarf build broomsticks to have an upper speed limit. I also know that limit can be disabled, because the witches back home have made an extreme sport out of racing them. A bunch of grannies in their upper seventies launching themselves across Short Street in a fraction of a minute leaves an impression on you. So let’s try this again, shall we: How fast can they go?’

                Angua left the room to the sound of the wizard stuttering objections, intending to pack her things and hopefully find an extra pair of trousers in her pack against the kind of chill you got three hundred feet up in the air. Although she appreciated that it would shorten their journey by entire weeks, she would just as soon go wolf and run on solid ground instead.

                But her thoughts were disturbed when she reached the room, and found the maid from earlier, who was hovering there nervously as if waiting for someone. She looked near panic at seeing Angua, but stood her ground anyway, white hands clasped painfully tight in front of her. Angua eyed her, eyebrow raised. ‘Can I help you?’

                ‘I – um – are you really going to Kneck Keep?’ The woman swallowed. ‘In Borogravia, I mean?’

                ‘That’s classified information.’

                ‘You’re not part of any army?’ Asked the woman. Her face was tight, but she seemed determined to see through whatever was on her mind.

                ‘No, ma’am. We’re the police.’

                ‘So you’re not on the Zlobenians’ side?’

                ‘They’d like to think so, but I doubt it.’ Angua gave her a closer look. Although the woman wore the Skund highland fashion, her accent misplaced her. ‘You’re Borogravian.’

                ‘I was a refugee,’ she said. ‘In the last war against Mouldavia.’

                She reached into her apron, and pulled out a folded letter. ‘Me and my nephew were the only ones who made it this far. But then he went and joined the Borogravian army. He wanted to fight for the motherland.’ She sounded bitter and proud at the same time. ‘Stupid boy. Please, if you find him – will you give him this?’ She held out the letter, and although she looked desperate, there was also steel in the back of her eyes.

                Angua hesitated. ‘What’s your name?’

                ‘Katarina. Katarina Szymborska. My nephew’s name is Miroslaw.’

                ‘Katrina. I promise I will try.’ She took the letter, and all the fight seemed to go out of the woman. She sagged, and blinked back tears. ‘Thank you.’

                ‘You must know –‘ said Angua, suddenly agitated at the idea of bringing her false hope. ‘I can’t be sure he is –‘

                ‘If I get no reply,’ said Katrina, ‘Then I shall know. Please excuse me.’

                And Angua stood there, alone in the hallway, until the rest of the squad joined her. ‘What have you got there?’ Asked Reg, looking at the letter in her numb hand.

                ‘Nothing,’ she (rep)lied, and folded it and put it carefully in her inside pocket. ‘Let’s hurry up and get going.

* * *

 

You could indeed, as it turned out, tweak the speed limit on a broomstick. They made good time across the mountains.

                It _also_ turned out that when you were travelling that fast, the landscape below was just a blur. It made it very difficult to keep track of your location, vis-a-vis the map.

                ‘I’m pretty sure it’s that way...’

                ‘Oh, you mean right into this bottomless ravine, do you?’

                ‘Gods, these mountain ranges all look the same!’

                ‘I think we’re maybe lost, sir.’

                ‘Is that a tactful way of saying ‘we’re really gods-damned lost’?’

                ‘Couldn’t say, sir.’

                Vimes, clinging to his broomstick with arms and legs and looking as if he wanted nothing more than to grow extra limbs to hold on tighter, sighed. He was shivering badly – they all were, at this altitude.* Below, there was pine forest so dense that they could not make out the forest floor. It seemed to grow everywhere, including off of vertical cliff-sides. Angua found that highly suspect. At least trees in Uberwald had the decency to grow according to natural (and dramatic) law, not every which way like bristles on a hedgehog. She sniffed the air, then twisted around on the broomstick.

_*Except for Reg, but since there was now a sizable icicle extending from one of his nostrils, he wasn’t really faring much better._

                ‘Campfire. In that direction.’

                Vimes looked down, and saw the thin twist of smoke rising between the trees.

                ‘We could ask whoever’s down there for directions,’ suggested Reg.

                Buggy snorted. ‘Right! Don’t you remember what the wizard said? Only bandits live in these woods!’

                ‘Bandits,’ repeated Vimes, an odd glint in his eye.

                ‘Got an idea, sir?’ Asked Reg.

                ‘Hm. Yes. Let’s head down there before we freeze to death, shall we? It’s not a crime to ask people for directions.’

                It could be risky. Even walking into a den of thieves fully aware wasn’t a great idea at the best of times. But it really was _godsdamn_ cold up here. And Angua had known him long enough by now to realize what that Look meant. Mister Vimes was about to _happen_ to someone. Finally, she thought, tugging her wooly hat over her ears. Something to look forward to.

* * *

 

Halfway-Rob*, enterprising highway man and holder-up of traffic all over the Skund Forest region, could hardly believe his luck. After a couple of sub-par weeks in the business, he nearly tripped over two marks in the forest on his way home. He gestured for his accomplices, Mattis and Bald Peter, to hide before they exposed them all, and listened to the raised voices.

_*His parents had named him Bobert, for his grandfather._

                ‘Got the cash?’

                ‘Easy there pal, of course I got the cash. Did you say four hundred?’

                ‘Five! Five hundred! Don’t try to short-charge me!’

                Halfway-Rob’s suspicions of this odd forest tableau dried up in an instant. They hadn’t made that kind of money for a day’s work in _months_. Even if five hundred dollars wasn’t as much as it had been at the start of his career, what with additional expenses. He was starting to fall behind on his quota.* He ignored the doubtful glances from his two comrades-in-crime, and gestured them to converge on the speakers quickly in a classic no.2 manoeuvre, to block any escape routes from behind. Halfway-Rob cracked his neck, wished he’d had the time to do his voice exercises,** and emerged out of the woods into the clearing like a spectre. He liked to get a good view of people’s terrified faces.

_*Few banditry groups these days were self-contained operations, and tended to work for some kind of cooperative. This had a few perks, compared to the old days. Most had at least some kind of dental plan, and new henchmen tended to be a lot more demanding when it came to employment benefits. It wasn’t quite the Ankh-Morpork Thieves’ Guild, but it was certainly a kind of organized crime._

_**People demanded an Experience out of banditry. Bobert wasn’t about to let standards slip just because the audience was frequently dead at the end of the performance._

                There was just one man, and he did not look very terrified, even as Halfway-Rob raised his crossbow and barked, ‘Stand and deliver, Mister!’ He wasn’t certain why he’d added that last bit – the man just looked like a solid candidate for mister-ness. He wasn’t handily carrying valuables in broad view for any rascal to see, and he had a scar over one eye and badly needed a shave, but his coat looked expensive, and that was enough for Halfway-Rob.

                ‘Who the hell are you?’

                ‘I’m the one asking questions! And no sudden movements, or my pals will give you a free shave and a haircut.’

                The man glanced over his shoulder. ‘If you say so.’ He raised both hands with exaggerated slowness.

                ‘Where’s the other guy?’ Said Bald Peter, nudging him between the shoulder blades with the point of his sword. ‘There were two of you talking.’

                Halfway-Rob wanted to roll his eyes. They had _talked_ about this – only one of them was supposed to do the talking, or it would appear like he didn’t have the situation under control.

                ‘I often talk to myself for no reason,’ said the man. Things were getting out of hand, Rob felt, so he barked, ‘It doesn’t matter! Give over your valuables if you want to live!’ It wasn’t particularly fancy language, but it got message across. Behind the man, Bald-Peter on cue pressed the point of his sword harder between the man’s shoulder blades.

                ‘That might turn out badly-‘

                ‘That was the idea,’ leered Peter.

                Suddenly, a tiny blur left the man’s shadow, raced up Bald Peter’s leg and stopped at his wrist. There was a _crack_ and Bald Peter howled in pain, dropping his sword.

                ‘- for you.’ The man finished.

                Halfway Rob’s finger instinctively went for the trigger on his crossbow, but a deep-throated growl behind him convinced him to hesitate. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another figure emerge from the forest behind Mattis and shouted a warning. Mattis reacted on a hair-trigger, twisting and stabbing with enough force that his sword went straight through the figure’s stomach. To Halfway-Rob’s horror, instead of crumpling, the figure reached out and grabbed Mattis by the throat, forbidding his escape and keeping him from pulling out his sword. ‘How rude,’ said the terrifyingly grey-skinned figure hoarsely. ‘I _just_ got this shirt cleaned.’

                Mattis fainted. Bald Peter was on the ground too, clutching at his wrist while a tiny man kicked him repeatedly in the temple. And Bobert dared not move an inch, because _something_ had its jaws around his ankle. It was quite gentle, really, but the size of the teeth told him that this need not remain so.

                ‘Drop the crossbow,’ said the man who had long ago put his hands down. Halfway-Rob did.

                Blood thrumming in his ears, terror turning his knees to jelly, Halfway-Rob swallowed, and said, ‘What the hells do you want?!’

                The man stepped forward, until he was terrifyingly close, and said with a horrible smile, ‘We were wondering if you could give us some directions?’

* * *

 

Ten minutes later, they were back on the broomsticks.

                ‘They were helpful,’ remarked Vimes. He sounded rather cheerful.

                ‘Speak for yourself,’ said Reg. ‘I’ll have to get more twine soon or I’ll end up losing my intestines. Again.’

                ‘Sorry about that, Reg.’

                The zombie sighed in a put-upon manner. ‘It’s _fine_. Some people just have no manners. You’d think they’d never seen a dead man walking before.’

                Angua grunted. Then she said, ‘I can’t believe your whole plan was ‘let’s talk loudly about money in the forest until some bandits show up.’’

                ‘Well, it did work.’ Vimes shrugged. ‘Although the signs all over the place saying ‘Danger! High banditry area! Do NOT go this way!’ Helped a lot.’

                ‘How legal was that, do you think?’ Reg pondered.

                ‘Nothing illegal about asking for directions,’ said Buggy. ‘Anyway, we didn’t do anything to ‘em.’

                ‘You did break that man’s wrist, Buggy.’

                ‘He was gonna stick the boss right in the thoracic!’

                Reg paused. ‘Is that some kind of devil lizard?’

                ‘What?’

                ‘Probably not entirely legal,’ conceded Vimes. ‘But we’re on a tight schedule, and there’s no one to hand them over to. I suppose we could only try to dissuade them from stabbing some poor bastards passing through for a little while.’

                ‘We did essentially trap them,’ said Angua. ‘Not that I feel too bad about it. That man smelled like other people’s blood.’

                ‘Well, now you’re making me want to go back and do something more permanent,’ said Buggy.

                ‘I think we did okay,’ quipped Angua. ‘Before we left, I cuffed them all together, elbows to knees. That should keep them on their toes.’

                Mister Vimes laughed. Over the pine forest, the sun was sinking. With any luck, they’d be at the dwarf canals before total sunset.

* * *

 

                ‘Found him, sir!’

                It was Reg who barrelled through the door to Vimes’ frigid office. Lieutenant Chinny, who had been giving his report,* made a face at the zombie’s arrival and then hurriedly tried to _un_ make it. Reg clattered to a halt in front of Vimes’ desk and did not bother to salute, which insulted Chinny on a spiritual level. But Vimes, rather than reprimanding him, merely said ‘Alive?’

_*In Vimes’ opinion, Chinny gave rather too many reports, most of which reported on nothing very much._

                ‘Yes, sir, although I find it rather vitalistically loaded to act as if that is the only acceptable answer – ‘

                ‘ _Reg_. Gods know I normally appreciate your contribution, but this is not the time.’

                ‘Alright, sir. He’s fine, aside from some bruises. Rest of his squad wasn’t all so lucky.’

                Vimes tsk’d. ‘I’m starting to think that we should have brought Igor with us.’

                ‘You can say that again, sir. Although if that squad gets all the way here, we might be able to borrow theirs.’

                ‘Reg, I won’t deny they’ve done some wild things up to this point, but they’d have to be truly insane to try something like that. Lieutenant, make sure Private Paul Perks is put into protective custody.’

                ‘Yes sir,’ said Chinny, and dared to venture, ‘May I ask why?’

                The Commander paused. ‘Well, if I was a general, I’d no doubt tell you that he might be a valuable bargaining chip against the lone guerrilla Borogravian squad upsetting half the country by this point, or some rot like that.’

                The Lieutenant felt off-balance. ‘That’s... _not_ the reason?’

                ‘No, it is that frankly I don’t know what his sister might do if he turned up dead, and I do not want to find out.’

                ‘It might not be that bad, sir,’ said Reg.

                ‘For _us_ you mean,’ said Vimes. ‘I pity whoever gets in their way in the meantime.’

                ‘Oh, death can incite people to act in very interesting ways, Mister Vimes.’ Lieutenant Chinny was too busy being outraged at the lack of protocol to pay much attention to the actual conversation, but it seemed to him that there was additional meaning to the words spoken by the zombie just then.

                The Commander huffed. ‘You would know first-hand.’              

                ‘Oh not just me. The same applies for a Sergeant I once knew. But he found a way around that too, in the end.’

                The Commander could always summon a pokerface without a second’s notice, but now he actually seemed to freeze, as if he had been truly surprised. ‘Reg,’ he began. ‘You –‘

                ‘I won’t take up more of your time, Mister Vimes, I still haven’t gotten the generals in the crypt to behave like respectable people, and the last thing we need is them getting out of the crypt and lurching at us. They really are rather old fashioned. Not to mention that Sergeant Angua isn’t back yet.’

                The Commander opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he said, ‘Thank you Reg. Let me know when Angua and Swires return, will you? I want them reporting to me as soon as they’re through the door, we need anything, _anything_ that will give us an edge right now. Things have started getting out of hand.’ He barked a laugh. ‘At least, as much more out of hand as a war possibly can. I don’t want to give the Alliance any more time than absolutely necessary to make a stupid –‘ He glanced sardonically at Chinny, ‘Sorry, _inadvisable_ decision.’

                Constable Shoe saluted, and then was gone, leaving only the lingering smell of mothballs. The Commander sat still, tapping the point of his pencil on his paperwork. Then he laughed once, sharply.

                ‘Your gra- My lord?’ Said Chinny.

                ‘Just a little cosmic joke at my expanse, Lieutenant. I’m going to try get a word off the Borogravian officers held hostage here again. This will probably take a while.’

                Chinny almost panicked. He could easily work unsupervised – or at least he had, before all this started and people suddenly expected him to actually _do_ some work. ‘What if I need to report to you, sir?’

                Vimes’ face broadcast to anyone with the wits to see it just where he could shove those reports. Unfortunately, the only person to see that expression was in fact Chinny. ‘We have a keep full of generals, they must be good for _something._ If you need a watchman specifically, talk to Constable Shoe. If you need an Officer, wait for Sergeant von Uberwald to return.’

                Chinny visibly balked. Even after having spent two weeks in Vimes’ company, he had not learned a whole lot. ‘Report to a _Sergeant_?’ He said, barely resisting reaching for his Lieutenant’s epaulettes to make sure they were still there. He was only just smart enough not to repeat the thought the preceded it which was, “Report to a _woman_?”

                Vimes paused then, in the doorway. ‘The Watch hierarchy may not possess the rank of Lieutenant, but as far as I am concerned, the Sergeant _outranks you_.’

‘Sir-!’

‘Are we clear?’

The Lieutenant could only swallow his tongue, and nod. Then he said, ‘Not that _I_ object,’ he lied, ‘but I predict there may be trouble with the officers of the Alliance because of this.’

‘Then I’ll damn well promote her to make it stick,’ said Vimes, and was gone.

Lawrence Chinny had had most of his petty vengeful impulses trained out of him by private school teachers in starched collars. But he did think very hard about getting a saw, just then, and making one of the legs of the Commander’s desk shorter than the others.

He eventually abandoned the thought, if only because the desk was so rickety already there was no possible way he could make it worse.

* * *

 

As night came and the now-notorious monstrous regiment settled down, Angua found a safe spot in a thicket of bushes, and Changed. It was cold out, but she had brought a pack of warm clothes tied around her neck, and she quickly bundled up. Above, a waxing gibbous inched across the sky.

                She could have kept warmer, and arguably safer too, if she stayed a wolf through the night. But she had not changed back to human form at all for two days, and it was starting to get to her. She was still sharp, there wasn’t much chance of her forgetting who she was and running off to hunt pheasants in the forest. But she was jittery, like she always became after spending long time on four feet.

                She had seen her own reflection in a puddle of water, earlier that day. Nothing strange about that. Natural philosophers liked to debate whether dogs could recognize their own face in the mirror, and the answer remained a mystery, but werewolves certainly could. Only, for a split second, she could have sworn it was Wolfgang.

                She tried to dismiss it, thinking it was because of where she was. She half-expected to see Andre any day now, masquerading as a sheep dog. It didn’t make any sense. Borogravia may have been a small country, but it covered a lot of geography. He was probably on another _continent_ by now, with the war going on. That was if he was even still alive. And even though the four siblings were pretty similar in appearance (even if you counted the ones who weren’t born polymorphs), no-one who met Andre could ever mistake him for Wolfgang.

                _He’s dead for good,_ she told herself, hugging her knees. _Mister Vimes saw to that._

Her mother had called her monstrous before she left, one last time, for rejoicing in her brother’s death. It made her want to laugh, not at the absurdity, although there was a lot of that – especially after how they had ignored what Wolfgang had done to Elsie. It was that she had already taken the label for granted long before, for entirely different reasons.

                Some nights, she isn’t sure if it is Changing that puts her on edge, or simply the reminder of her brother in herself.

* * *

 

It was night in Kneck Keep, and against all odds, it was quiet. It would surprise anyone, the total chaos that would take place in just a few hours when a squad of intrepid soldiers* would break in, and all Hell would be let loose.

_*Or a group of frightened girls, depending on who got to tell the story, although Mr. de Worde to his credit went with the former._

                Despite it having been windy every minutes the gods sent since she arrived there, Angua gravitated towards the roof of the keep, and found against all prior evidence that it was still. The moon was hidden behind scattered clouds, and although it was not full she was for the moment grateful of its absence.

                She was not alone up there. Just as she exited the stairwell, she met Reg coming the other way. He only nodded at her, and disappeared downstairs to do whatever he did instead of sleeping. Angua shrugged to herself, and went outside to escape the oppressive silence that loomed inside the keep, and the smell of too many people in various stages of vitality.

                Except there was someone else there too, leaning against a buttress. Mister Vimes was lit up by the hellish glow of the war camps below, and the still fresh scar on his face didn’t make that picture any prettier. The impression* was, however, mitigated somewhat by the fact that he was wearing a thick woolly sweater, courtesy of Lady Sybil, and warming his hands on a cup of something hot.

* _Which had, on a number of occasions, frightened a couple of the less-observant recruits in Pseudopolis Yard into asking their training officer in a quavering voice what crimes_ that _man had committed.**_

_**Usually they didn’t last long, because anyone who was so busy looking at a person’s face that they do not notice their uniform also probably wouldn’t notice the knife coming for them, and were duly dismissed by Detritus, who did not like to send people into the street if they could not defend themselves.***_

_*** Although one or two became stellar police officers, who were only just embarrassed enough by those stories that they eventually ended up reaching the Commander. Angua had never asked him, but secretly suspected that he found them a riot._

                He nodded at her as she leaned against the wall next to him, and looked down into the valley. ‘Did Reg forget we’re on Day shift again?’ She asked.

                ‘I don’t think he’s quite wrapped his head around it,’ said Vimes. ‘But no. He had something he wanted to discuss.’

                ‘Serious?’ Asked Angua, thinking of the wall of fire before them.

                ‘Only to dead men,’ said Vimes, and something about the way he said it was strange. She was rather more equipped to understand it now when her boss said cryptic weird shit than back when she joined, but she was fine with not translating all of it.  In any case, he changed the subject rather obviously, raising his mug and saying, ‘I’d offer, but I think Willikins discovered my stash before we left, and I’m not nice enough to share the bit that’s left.’

                Angua grinned. ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t booze, and last time I checked you can’t drink bacon.’ Actually she could smell it from here, but she didn’t mind smalltalk with someone who had as little of it to go around as she did.

                ‘No, but it’s a thought.’ He took a sip. ‘’S cocoa. I’ve gained a taste for it, swear I’ve drunk more of the stuff than coffee ever since – for the last couple of months.’

                ‘Oh man. The Quirmian stuff?’

                ‘Of course, what do you take me for?’

                ‘I want you to know that if they find you with your throat ripped out in the morning sir, this is the reason why.’

                Vimes laughed, and it struck Angua that she truly had no idea when they had graduated to being able to genuinely joke about that. Once she had stopped seeing him as a washed-up old drunk, she had been surprised to find they shared a similar sense of humour. But that was still worlds away for being able to joke about the all-too-real prospect of murdering your boss to his face. She fiddled with her collar, which she had yet to remove since she had never managed to go to bed. Rather, she fiddled with her badge.

                Mr. Vimes did not look at her when she did, but he did say, ‘That damn Lieutenant keeps getting in our way. I’ll have to promote you again if it keeps up.’

                Angua grinned sharply. ‘That may be too vindictive, sir, even for you.’

                ‘Not by a long shot. Besides, the Watch is getting bigger. We need another Captain.’ He sipped his cocoa.

                ‘Well, I’m sure there’s someone else.’

                ‘There isn’t. No, don’t look at me like that, Sergeant, you know very well that it’s not flattery. There isn’t anyone more qualified, or I would happily promote whomever it was. But the Watch is big now, it has _real_ power. I want to make sure that it doesn’t slide back into how it was.’

                ‘I doubt we could lose that much manpower that quickly,’ said Angua.

                ‘Oh, that wasn’t the worst of it. You have no idea.’ There is an edge to his voice.

                Angua did not really know that much about the lilac, never mind the Revolution, although Carrot had doubtlessly done his own little lecture about it at some point. But she remembered when the Cable Street Watch house was opened – or re-opened, according to the historian who was so interested in the rebuilding effort. It was a historic site, she said, still in possession of the city although the original building caught fire* some years ago.

_*Was burnt down._

It was the things she _didn’t_ say, that stuck in Angua’s mind, in monologues about things like “panoptic surveillance” and “abuse of the civil power” and “civil dissent”. They often managed to skate right through the implications of things like interrogation techniques, and curfew, and espionage.

                One thing that was clear without ever being uttered was: The Commander did not like to spend any more time in that building than absolutely necessary. Neither, come to that, did Nobby or Colon or Reg.

                ‘I don’t suppose I do,’ she settled for. ‘Still not taking that promotion, though.’

                Vimes groaned, and put down his mug on top of the wall. ‘You know, I don’t _have_ to ask? As your superior I could very easily make you, and Vetinari would back me up! Come to that, I could have done it every _other_ time you resisted being promoted. Do you know Cheery once gave me a real talking-to because she thought I wasn’t letting you go beyond Corporal out of prejudice?’

                ‘She _did_?’

                ‘Oh yes. She nearly cried near the end too, which was almost worse. You know how she is.’

                ‘That’s... Very sweet of her.’ It was, truly, but Angua also couldn’t imagine explaining the facts to Cheery, for all that she was her best friend.

                But he wasn’t letting the subject go, damn him. ‘Why do you keep this up?’

                ‘It’s my natural humility,’ drawled Angua.

                ‘Pull the other one.’

                ‘Io, you won’t budge, will you?’

                ‘It’s one in the morning. Are you prepared to find out?’ His expression wasn’t quite that of a kid in the back seat of a carriage asking ‘are we there yet?’ eleven hundred consecutive times in half an hour, but the resemblance was such that Angua finally snapped.

                ‘Fine! It’s because I thought you’d take a hint sooner or later, you old bastard!’

                Vimes... Said nothing. Instead, he reached into his pocket for his cigar case, from where he extracted one, lit up, and took a drag. He did not look away.

                Angua was perfectly aware that she was being manipulated into talking, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t successful. ‘I made it perfectly clear I wasn’t sticking around, from the very moment I joined!’         

                ‘In every way except saying it out loud,’ said Vimes. ‘You’re lucky Carrot was never any good at subliminal messaging. Sorry, sorry,’ he said at her glare. ‘But neither am I letting go easy on losing a damn good officer. We’re either having this out now or –‘

                ‘Or?’

                He shrugged. ‘Well, it’s not like I can physically stop you. But I’m... Well, I’m _asking you_. I like to think we’ve known each other long enough at this point that I deserve some kind of answer.’

                Angua disagreed with him on the first one. If anything, ‘wouldn’t’ was the qualifier rather than a ‘couldn’t.’ A fully motivated Sam Vimes was a terrible thing to behold, as a couple of werewolves had already found out. Not to mention he had taught her a great deal of what she knew.* But she wasn’t quite angry enough to have an all-out brawl with her boss. And to her consternation, she _liked_ him. It wasn’t even a kind of cynical camaraderie between fellow bastards - that only went so far. It was recognizing in another person the difficult traits you knew in yourself and hoping against hope that some of their saving graces could be found in you, too.

 _*Not_ everything _, Angua had been quite proficient at all fighting involving teeth, for example, and quite decent at fists and feet. But certainly most things involving, say, weapons, elbows and occasionally, improvised furniture._

                It was because she knew him that she knew that he, maybe more than anyone else, would understand. ‘Do you know how fucking terrified I was, nearly every day, that something would go wrong and I’d wake up having eaten someone I knew?’ It’s nasty, it’s brutal, it’s uncomfortable and most of all, it’s true. ‘Me, who was supposed to be a servant of the law, supposed to protect people? Who looked at me like I was a perfectly normal person, and asked me for help – after they were done complaining, anyway – who expected me to do the right thing?’

                ‘Yes.’ Said Mister Vimes. Then he amended it to, ‘Well, aside from the bit with the cannibalism.’

                ‘I don’t know what I expected from you,’ admitted Angua. ‘I thought you of all people would get it, and get off my back. Or maybe it’s the opposite – just because _you_ have your shit together you think you can expect everyone else to do the same –‘

                Old Stoneface lived up to his name. ‘Sergeant, for the last forty-six years, I’ve had my shit together for approximately five of them. No, less probably.’ He blew out a cloud of smoke, which quickly was swept down by the updraft to join the smog rising off the war camp. ‘What was it you said to me that time? ‘Sooner or later, we’re all someone’s dog’? Well, a dog may not get to pick its leash, but we do. That’s _why_ we keep those people around, Sergeant, so they can keep an eye on us.’

                ‘After Wolfang, I asked Carrot to –‘ she couldn’t stop herself from starting that sentence, but she could keep from finishing it. The terrible spill-words still hung in the air, loud enough that anyone could read them.

                Vimes sighed, smoke rising. ‘That’s a lot to put all on one person.’

                ‘I know.’

                ‘That’s a lot to put on _your spouse_.’

                Angua didn’t bother arguing with the term, even if the idea of Carrot proposing makes her want to jump off a cliff. It wasn’t as if marriage had the same heft it did in Ankh-Morpork just ten years ago. It was true in most ways that matter. ‘What, you have a better idea?’

                It was acidic, the way she said it, but he laughed. ‘Do I have a better idea than asking my wife to execute me in case I ever step too far out of line? I should hope so!’

                ‘Like Lady Sybil would ever take you seriously,’ muttered Angua, feeling contrite and a bit absurd.

                ‘Oh, she didn’t. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a bad idea.’ She stared at him. ‘Look, we all have our moments of terribly overdramatic depression. But let me tell you something. I’ve realized a couple things these last few months –‘

                ‘Do share your wisdom,’ Angua deadpanned.

                Vimes ignored her. ‘Leash or no leash, when no-one’s watching us, we watch ourselves. By the time we don’t have other people to tell us who we are, we are able to tell ourselves.’

                ‘Wolfgang didn’t,’ Angua managed to grind out.

                ‘And you’re not him.’ And it wasn’t anything like Carrot’s patient reassurance. It was the rock-solid certainty of someone who recognized that in some bastard leg of the trousers of time, he _could_ have been that, but chose not to. ‘And you never will be.’ He grinned, and added, ‘One monster to another, at least trust that we’d keep an eye on you.’

                Angua stares across the battlefield-to-be before them, and smells the embers from the cooking fires and the roasting of meat and the boiling of vegetables and the soap in the laundry rooms and the mustiness of the crypts and the thousands of living bodies and the smoke of the cigar and the sweetness of the cocoa. It all stretches out ahead, much like the future, in one somewhat terrifying cacophony.

                ‘I’ll think about it,’ she managed, and Mister Vimes stubbed out his cigar.

                ‘That’s something to be grateful for, then,’ he said, and drained the mug. ‘I’m turning in. Tomorrow should be a total disaster, if we’re lucky.’ He clapped her on the shoulder, and disappeared down the stairs.

                And Angua stood still for a good long while, and gazed down at the oncoming future.

* * *

 

_Epilogue_

It was with considerable relief on all sides that the Alliance and associated bodies cleared out of Kneck Keep after a truce had been finalized. Some stayed behind, but they were the people that specialized in sorting out trades, and loans, and transport of goods, rather than those who operated the siege weapons*. Soldiers were leaving, too, both on the Borogravian and Mouldavian side, heading home before winter set in, in the hope of saving some of the year’s harvest.

_*Or rather, the people who told the people who operated the siege weapons when to pull the lever._

                One such soldier was known among his friends as Other Mirek*. He sat on a rock, his crutch by his side, watching his unit’s Corporal** and his mate Twiggy help a third man onto the cart they had been given for the transport of those soldiers that could not walk home. Private Tom ‘Eggs’ Twazdowski complained the whole time, not at their rough handling, but at being made to sit on the cart when Other Mirek was going to walk. ‘He has a broken leg and _he’s_ allowed to pick and choose, just give me a crutch and I’ll do the same!’

_*To distinguish him from Tall Mirek and Short Mirek, of the same regiment._

_**Promoted only two days ago after Corporal Bartók’s untimely retirement via trebuchet._

                ‘Eggy, there is a difference between getting an arrow to the leg and _losing_ the entire leg,’ said Twiggy patiently, or with what passed for patience. It may just have been tiredness.

                ‘That Igor stitched me up good and proper, I’ll hop along just fine,’ grumbled the man. Other Mirek felt he was, at age 34, too old to be such a baby about the issue.

                ‘I don’t get why she didn’t just get you a new one,’ said Other Mirek, trying not to think too hard of when he had carried Eggs down to the impromptu field hospital set up by the now notorious Cheesemongers. ‘Wasn’t as if there weren’t plenty lying around.’

                ‘She said she didn’t have one in my size,’ said Eggs, using his remaining leg to pull his crutch towards him. ‘She said she’d send one of her cousins my way in a month or so when things had quietened down.’

                The Corporal, who had lost hearing on one ear from the cannon fire turned just then, and caught the tail end of the sentence. ‘Hah! I’d like to see the look on your mother’s face when an Igor waltzes into your village!’ He waved his hand around as if holding an imaginary appendage. ‘Anyone recognize this? It was in the lost and found!’

                They all laughed, Eggs loudest of all. ‘She won’t like it. Always been far too fond of quoting scripture, that woman.’

                ‘She can’t possibly tell you _not_ to accept it,’ balked Other Mirek. ‘Besides, what grounds will she have to complain? They’re saying Nuggan is dead, now.’

                Both Twiggy and the Corporal looked around surreptitiously in case anyone heard. Even with the Duchess’ chosen prophet walking around, it was hard to go back on life-long impulses. But Eggs said, ‘You think it will be that easy? The Nuggan of nonbelievers walks among us whether the god himself is gone or not. Most of them weren’t afraid of him anyway, they were afraid of the bastards enforcing the Book.’

                Other Mirek didn’t disagree, but he also thought Eggs was a bit of a pretentious bastard, and told him so. They laughed at that, too, because they weren’t dead and that was the funniest joke of all. It was then that someone tapped Other Mirek on the shoulder. He turned around and found a tall woman in armour, sergeant’s stripes on her shoulder. This was not entirely new territory for him, given the last few days of the siege, and the handful of older soldiers who had revealed themselves to be women since then, but still novel enough that he was tongue-tied. Thankfully, she didn’t wait for him to speak before asking, ‘Are you Private Miroslaw Rózewicz?’

                ‘Er – yes? Er. Sergeant.’ He hurriedly got up with the help of his crutch and saluted. It seemed a safe bet, although she wore no colours that he recognized, and her armour seemed old-fashioned compared to most of the people they’d been fighting. ‘Can I help you?’ He was expecting his squadmates to make some kind of comment on his expanse or to say something risqué* to her, but when he glanced around, they were only looking back nervously. The rank might have stopped them, but more likely it was the, well, the air she had about her. It was hard to put into words, but just the one would suffice and it was: “Don’t.”

_*It was fair game, obviously, on account of her being a) a woman who b) existed in physical space._

                She reached into a pocket and produced a crumpled envelope, which she handed to him. It bore his name on it, in painfully familiar handwriting. He stared at it, and then up at her, aghast. ‘How –‘

                ‘Your aunt sends her love, and says you should hurry home,’ she said. ‘But I suppose I don’t need to tell you that now you are already leaving.’

                ‘Actually, we were going to go back to our post in –‘

                Her eyes gleamed terribly. ‘I suggest taking an extended leave of absence.’ She nodded at him, and the rest of the squad. ‘Good day.’ And then she was gone in the throng of people all clamouring about the camp, before Other Mirek could say a word.

                ‘Who the hell was that?’ Asked the Corporal. Other Mirek only shrugged, and held the letter like something precious.

                ‘Dunno. But maybe she had the right idea.’

* * *

 

Further up the valley, an ox-cart heading for the dwarf canals waited for its last passenger. In the driver’s seat was a man so small that to the unprepared observer, it might seem that the reins were simply loosely tied to the bench. Behind him on the cart proper sat another, grey-skinned, holding a roll of thread and a needle. He was currently stitching up a rather large hole in his torso.

                ‘-just saying,’ he did indeed say, ‘The oxen don’t like me. You’re a much better option for driving us there.’

                ‘Liar. You’re just a city boy who can’t handle animals unless they are on your plate.’ There was a derisive snort.

                ‘Buggy, I haven’t eaten in thirty years.’

                ‘Whatever, same principle. You get nervous around oxen.’

                ‘Can you blame me? They could trample me into a stringy mess on the cobbles and I’d _still_ have to pick myself up after! Why don’t you ask Mister Vimes, if you dislike it so much?’

                ‘Never said I did. Besides, he’s asleep.’ There was a glugging noise.

                ‘Buggy is that a, a jar of whiskey?’

                ‘Sure is!’

                ‘Where did you get it?’

                ‘Remember those bandits?

                ‘Wha – that was weeks ago! You’ve saved it until _now_?’

                ‘Half the pleasure is in the anticipation, Reg. Besides, we’re leaving and not technically on duty, so Boss won’t get on my case. Especially if he’s snoring.’

                There was, indeed, a snore from the other end of the cart, where Mister Vimes lay on his back with helmet over his eyes. Buggy grinned, then looked back down the road. ‘What’s taking her so long?’

                ‘Beats me.’ There was a pause. ‘Do you think she maybe –‘

                Just then, Angua appeared on the road, cresting the hill behind them. She was currently on four legs, and accelerating. They watched her careen into a bush and heard the sound when she Changed back.

                Reg called out, ‘Want me to toss you your clothes?’

                ‘Thanks, but I’ve got them with me. Just give me a sec.’ Then she was out of the bush, and hopped onto the back of the cart, narrowly avoiding stepping on Vimes as she did.

                ‘You were in a hurry.’ Buggy remarked.

                ‘You told me we were leaving on the hour, I thought I’d be polite.’

                ‘It’s not as if we were going to leave without you,’ said Reg. Angua sat down opposite him, then nudged Vimes in the ribs. He startled awake with a ‘hhrnmrgh?’

                ‘We’re setting off, sir.’

                ‘Oh, good. Wake me up when we reach Ankh-Morpork, will you?’

                ‘That won’t be for another week at the very least, sir.’

                ‘I meant what I said, Sergeant.’ Vimes lay down again. ‘I’m sure you three can figure out the way there.’

                ‘The map should be here somewhere,’ murmured Reg, and Buggy groaned.

                Angua got comfortable against the rough side of the rocking cart on the uneven road. ‘Take us home, Swires.’

                Buggy cracked the reins, and by increments, they left. Overhead, an unrelated hawk spiralled in the sky.

                ‘Is that whiskey?’

                ‘It smells like it, at least.’

                ‘Isn’t there a law against drinking and driving?’

                ‘Only if you get the ox drunk first!’

                No-one noticed their departure. But, given the mess they left behind, this was probably for the best.

               

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to The_Icelander and seiya234 for beta-ing and having the good grace to groan at the puns.


End file.
